


Follow you, follow me

by Sys



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-08-20 08:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16552316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sys/pseuds/Sys
Summary: After the events ofNeverlandand time innocently served in prison it's time to make decisions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I watched all of Morse before I started on Endeavour, so I was "spoiled" of course on where he's heading. But that doesn't change that I love Morsica as a couple, and Monica as a character. And that's what we have fanfic for, don't we? Ignoring any and all canon events we don't like...

He’s asked hundreds of questions. Thousands, possibly. Comes with the job, asking questions. Uncomfortable ones, too. And you can’t predict the reaction you’ll get. _Came with the job._ That’s all in the past. All of it. None of it matters if she agrees to his plans. He’ll leave it behind. Like university. Like signals. One chapter closed, another about to open. 

It takes her a moment to open the door. Long enough to consider his folly. Not long enough to reconsider.

She doesn’t smile when she sees him. Hasn’t the last couple of times, since... It takes a while, now. For her to reach out. To stroke his cheek, tears filling her eyes. It’s painful to see her like this. The past months were hell for him. But to know that they hurt _her_... he swallows the futile anger at the man responsible. Again. A new chapter. There’s no use, dwelling in the past.

“Will you come with me?” He asks, his lips drier than they should be. 

“Yes.”

It’s done. They’ve discussed it before... he unclenches his fists. Tries to smile, but it doesn’t come easy these days. Never really did. It’s her smile that breaks his heart. She wasn’t meant to be sad. How can he ask her to leave her life? Her friends? Just for him. Because he’s too good at making enemies. 

There’s just one alternative to that, though, without risking her life. He _has_ to go. Now more than ever. 

“If you’d rather stay...”

Her hand finds his chin, ensures that he looks right into those sad eyes of hers. And it’s there still, her determination. Whatever else they took from them in those three months. They didn’t take that. 

“Ruth 1.16.” 

His smile softens. Not so much the last part, hopefully. But it’s the best possible opportunity to ask. 

“If I... were to ask you... to...” Somehow it all seemed easier in his head. Before those three months of uncertainty. He reaches into his pocket. It’s just a question. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if she said no. 

“Endeavour...” 

He winces at the gentle tone of her voice as much as at the name. She’s guessed his intent, then. And there’s little hope that a tone that gentle means anything but a kind refusal. Wrong time, maybe. Or maybe she never wanted things to get that serious. He turns, trying to mask his disappointment. 

“You don’t have to buy me a ring. I _am_ coming with you.”

“It’s... it is just an engagement ring. You could still change your mind...” 

People do. Some even change their mind _after_ the vows. 

She remains silent almost too long for him to bear. Then her hand finds his arm. Turns him, gently, to face her again. When he does, she extends her hand, fingers spread in an unmistakable gesture. His own fingers find the box in his pocket once more and he prays that it fits. That she likes it, too. It would be too expensive, getting another. 

If she notices the trembling she doesn’t comment. Just waits, patiently, for him to slide the ring over her finger. Her smile rewards him as she studies the sleek golden band, adorned with a ruby set amidst two diamonds. It’s enough, also, to soothe his fears. She does like it.

The kiss takes him off guard. It’s gentle, just a peck. But they haven’t kissed. For months. And he’s unprepared for how much he missed her lips. His arms move of their own volition, and he’s missed that, too. Holding her close. Feeling her breath against his neck. 

“How do you want to celebrate?”

“I am.”

It takes him a moment. Feeling her lips brush past his neck is a none too subtle hint. But what if he can’t... that part’s never been a problem. But now... what if...

“I should take you out for dinner,... drinks, at least...”

“We need to save our money if we want to start over.”

She’s right, of course. But...

“Are you _sure_ you want this?” She still has a job. And a home. And a circle of friends. And no enemies, except his. 

“Nurses are needed everywhere. We’ll manage...”

Even without his wages, it’s implied in the undercurrent. But she looks concerned. He _is_ asking a lot. But her eyes have that same determined look he’s seen earlier. Asking again would just make her wonder if _he_ ’s second guessing the plan.

“So where do we go?”

“My sister’s family got a farm up in Yorkshire. She’d take us in till we found somewhere.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a burden.”

“You’ve never lived on a farm, have you? There’s always _something_ to do. And Eliza will let us know.”

Nothing like bodily work to take his mind off problems. Both those sealed in the past, and the ones waiting ahead. He nods when she looks at him expectantly. “All right, if she’ll have us.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Most hands leave a couple of months after they started. Not everyone’s cut out for it.”

He probably isn’t, either. But with a bit of luck he’ll find a teaching position before anyone notices.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s not sure how he ended up agreeing to go ahead and stay with Monica’s family while she remains in Oxford to continue her work till the hospital deigns to let her out of her contract. But he has agreed to it. And he regrets his choice ever so much when he’s standing in front of a farm house, suitcase in hand, wondering just what to expect. 

It’s a terrible time to start feeling shy. If he’d at least bought something... anything, just a little gesture to say sorry for the inconvenience. Thanks for having me. But his attempt to get Monica to tell him what they might like had ended up with her getting his promise that he wouldn’t waste money on a gift while they had none. It’d have to wait until after they’d found work again. Which is a comfort, as far as his conscience is concerned. But it doesn’t improve the current situation.

“You must be... Morse, please come in.”

It takes him a moment to gather himself. Eliza Jones is eight years Monica’s senior, he’s learned that much in the couple of days it took to arrange the trip. And yet they look so alike... well some of it might be the way she smiles. He’s been favoured with that exact smile a lot, at least before the prison days that almost stole his girlfriend’s... _fiancée_ ’s smile. The thought makes it harder to smile back, but he manages. Shakes the offered hand. And then follows the instruction to come in, allowing Eliza (Monica insisted that as part of the family he _can’t_ address her formally) to close the door behind them.

“...yes, it’s good to meet you, Mrs... Eliza.”

She nods in acknowledgment, not bothering with further pleasantries. “I’ve got time for a short tour around the house before I need to get back to my duties. Abbie can show you how to feed our livestock. She’s excellent with animals, aren’t you?” Eliza turns, smiling at a little girl who’d hidden herself so successfully behind her legs that he’d almost missed her. “Now, say hello to Mr. Morse. He’s not a bad man.”

He can tell that Abbie’s none too keen on the contact, so he just smiles and waves to her. “Just Morse is fine, please. But it’s good to be cautious around strangers.”

“We’ve recently explained that to her. She’s taking it a little too seriously.” Eliza’s smile is somewhere between amused and exasperated. “It’ll get better when the boys get back from school.”

Four boys. Thomas, John, Samuel and Benjamin. And one girl, Abigail. Hearing about them in theory somehow didn’t turn them into the real people that Eliza and Abbie became when he met them. 

He follows Eliza to the kitchen. To a tiny bathroom. Listens to the proud announcement that they have _two_ bathrooms. Watches her tap a door leading to the parents’ bedroom, and follows her to another door that’s opened to show him Abbie’s room. Small, but big enough for a bed, a cuboard, and a thin shelf filled with children’s books and toys. 

“Mona and Jim (probably Monica’s elder brother James?) send those for the kids,” Eliza explains, following his gaze. “Abbie’s got quite the collection now that the boys have outgrown theirs.”

So he could have at least brought a book for Abbie to look at. Or perhaps some books for the elder boys who’d surrendered theirs to their little sister. His things never ended up with Joycie. Probably because anything pertaining to him was tainted somehow. He bans the thought to have a quick look at the boys’ rooms, each containing two beds, a cupboard, a shelf with a reasonable amount of books, and a chest of drawers. Then they make it to the anticipated second bathroom that’s not _as_ tiny as the last one. And another room that’s presented to him as Jimmy’s old room, which in turn means it’s the one he’ll be staying in. Monica’s going to have her own old room back. Which ironically is just across from “his”. But it could just as well be miles away, with Daniel Jones’s outdated views on sex out of wedlock. 

He doesn’t ask why the boys have to share rooms when there are two empty bedrooms. Just like he didn’t ask Monica why she and James had gone to live with their sister after she got married while the younger brothers, George and Stephen, had stayed with their parents. None of his business. Best to remember that, now that he’s not a policeman anymore. It’s not like he’d want to answer questions on why his parents got _divorced_. 

There’s a bed, a shelf and a cupboard in his room, which will do nicely for the contents of his suitcase. It’s a good thing that his records and record player moved in with Monica for now. There doesn’t seem to be any electricity anyway. And he’s not sure how they’ll store them once Monica actually comes and joins them. Maybe inside the cupboard? But that’ll have to wait a while. It’s two months if they can find a replacement, and six if they can’t. Rather a nuisance, but a good reference can go a long way. And unless he finds a job that pays well enough to support both of them he can’t even offer her a choice on whether she’d like to keep working.

“Abbie, show Mr. Morse the animals. I’ve got a fence I should check on.”

Abigail doesn’t acknowledge the instruction in any way and he involuntarily takes a step backwards when he sees the glare she receives. Not that it seems to particularly impress the girl it’s directed at. She does do as she’s told after receiving it. But she doesn’t seem at all worried by what would’ve made lesser men tremble. 

“Follow me,” she orders gravely. “Don’t tarry.”

He offers Eliza a bemused look and she shrugs, a smile returning to her face. “Careful, she’s got practice getting her older brothers in line.”


	3. Chapter 3

Farm work proves suitably exhausting to keep him from pondering. At least it helps for the first few days until his body’s got used to the work and he’s not aching quite as constantly anymore from muscles protesting against the unfamiliar tasks. It’s about a fortnight till he no longer needs what energy he has left to make sure he’s able to tell the boys (particularly Sam and Ben who he hadn’t realised were twins from Monica’s short introduction to her sister’s kids) apart, and to keep up with his list of new tasks as those seem to change around on a daily basis. He’s also got questions about why Daniel would leave the farm to do odd jobs on a regular basis when there seems to be quite enough work to keep the rest of them busy. But he’s not sure how to raise those.

He’s in the middle of stable duties when the thought first hits him. And once it does he’s unable to let go of it. What if all this is to show him that his old job wasn’t as bad as he made it out to be? Far away from Oxford those well connected old men and their ploys don’t seem half as impressive. And he hasn’t heard a word from Monica on any progress concerning her resignation. He hasn’t heard a word from Monica, period. It’s not really surprising, long distance phone calls are expensive. And he knew ahead that she couldn’t just drop by. But he misses talking to her. Among other things. The way she smiles. If she smiles. Hopefully she’s smiling again these days. 

“You’ll never get done like that.”

It’s taken him a couple of days to get used to Abbie’s abilities to find you wherever you are and shoo you back to work if need be. But these days it’s actually a pleasant little distraction, being told that he’s got a job to do.

“How many stables have I done?” He asks to get her counting.

“Seven.” 

“That’s right. And how many more do I need?”

More counting. “Seven.”

“That means I’m halfway done. And I still have plenty of time till dinner.”

“To get the cows.”

There’s that. 

“Maybe Mom will show you how to milk them.”

Other than Abbie he doesn’t consider that a prospect to look forward to. Leading them back to the stable’s about as much contact as he wants to have with them. Milking them is something he’ll gladly leave to Eliza and Thomas. Even if his prospects of ending up as one of the most prominent -and least fortunate- dairy girls in literature are thankfully nil. 

He doesn’t share his thoughts with Abbie as he moves to the next box. What he does instead is recite any poems and nursery rhymes he can think of, because there’s one fantastic way to get her to stop chiding his progress and that’s to keep her entertained instead. 

“What is palsy?”

Trust her to pick that word.

“It’s an illness.”

“Like a cold?”

In that they are both illnesses, yes. He nods.

“I had a cold last winter when I was four.” She holds up four fingers to illustrate her age. Then considers her hand and adds another to bring it up to date. “It was bad. Auntie Mona had to come.”

The thought that getting a bad cold would be a small price to pay to see Monica crosses his mind. But he discards it, remembering the last miserable cold he’s had as he moves to another box. He resumes his recitation and Abbie thankfully chooses not to interrupt him for a couple of stanzas. 

“Is a darkling someone who is dark and darling?”

Perhaps explaining word fusions wasn’t a good idea. She’s both particularly keen on spotting them. And very interested in having explanations for them. He moves on to the next box, considering her question.

“That’s probably the intention.” 

“I like that.”

Maybe he should’ve stuck with nursery rhymes. Maybe the Jabberwocky. Keats isn’t necessarily the most suitable entertainment for someone Abbie’s age. But it’s pointless, trying to stop in the middle of anything, because she’ll both know and become particularly unpleasant if you try to convince her that there are other poems she might like better.

“Was he sad?” Is all she asks when he is done.

“Keats?” He refrains from telling Abbie any biographical facts, at least. “Maybe. Poets don’t always write sad poems because they’re sad.”

“Are you sad?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“You like sad poems.”

“I miss your Auntie Mona.”

Abbie nods earnestly. “I miss her, too.”

He finishes the last few boxes followed by a silent, contemplative girl. When he is done he feels a small hand grasping his. 

“We should go get the cows now.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is rather bleak, I'm sorry. Initially I had meant to have Morse find some way to help the twins out of this mess and thereby find his way back to the "all it takes for the triumph of evil" sentiment. But I found that I didn't like the suggestion that Morse would be better at fixing the situation than the other people involved - having him forced to once more realize that there are times when you can't help even if you'd like to seemed more appropriate if a lot less satisfying.

It’s different if you don’t know the people involved. He’s worked a few cases that involved racism. Felt some outrage, had a couple of drinks. And tried to forget because with the job you need to forget if you are ever going to make the next case. Systematically abused children. Murdered young girls. It all adds up and eats you up inside, no matter how much you drink. But all you can do is bring the bad guys to justice. Smile sympathetically as you try and fail to offer comfort to the ones left behind. And close your eyes at night, trying to find sleep when out there more people get hurt.

Telling apart Sam and Ben is easier these days, but the reason for that leaves him trapped in impotent rage, with no way out. Sam’s been fighting and when questioned about it wouldn’t say why. So it was Ben who eventually told them the reasons. Told them about the sneers and slurs and the way they had slowly turned into more. Slaps. Or pinches. Boys will be boys, he’s heard that one before. Only that it didn’t stop there. And knowing that Sam didn’t start the fight doesn’t seem to change a thing. No, he’s told off for defending himself and his brother. And none of them even consider telling the teacher. Let alone the police. 

But he can see the quiet despair in Eliza’s eyes. Can see how subdued the boys are. How even Abbie seems to take no more delight in their word games and literature quizzes. Everyone moves on, slowly. Perhaps there really isn’t anything that could change what will happen if idiots decide that the colour of your skin means that you need to be tortured. People will always find their reasons to torment you. But while mom didn’t know how to help him either, at least she told him that the people hurting him were wrong. And he’d usually found quiet, subtle ways of taking revenge eventually.

“We depend on good relations with our neighbours,” Eliza tells him during his second milking lesson. “Trading, gossip, town meetings... we cannot afford to upset them because the boys think they can... they need to make a good impression.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t even know how the topic came up when she was explaining udder care until moments ago. But whether she was thinking about it since before they entered the stable or only just remembered it right now... it is hardly up to her to explain herself or how she chooses to raise her children. And he cannot think of anything comforting. It is not like tomorrow they will wake up and racism will be defeated. Or her boys will be safe from harassment. All cares will still be there and there is nothing he could do to resolve it.

“I’m sorry,” he finally offers and it sounds trite, but adding more might take away from how much he means those words.

“It is not the first time something like this happened.” She doesn’t say that it won’t be the last either.

“Would it help you to talk about it?”

She laughs at that. It is not a cheerful laugh, but it isn’t a bitter one either. She is beautiful when she laughs, a lot like her sister. And it aches when it dawns on him that Monica must have had experiences comparable to this. That she must know, too, that her family endures these things. Books thrown in the dirt. Insults. Threats... and nothing that can be done about it.

“I have to go back to work.” The words come out before he thinks that through. 

Eliza studies him. “You want to rejoin the police?”

“Proverbs 24:10.” He is about to explain when she nods. “If I can bring people to justice and prevent them from hurting others...”

Something about the way Eliza smiles at him reminds him of his ponderings a couple of weeks ago, whether or not Monica actually wanted him to come to that realisation. But he doesn’t ask. Just quietly helps with the milking as best he can and considers who to call to receive an update on the situation back home. Strange, maybe. No use bothering Monica with any of this until he knows if he still has a job.


End file.
